Canary and Mole
by TaupeDeCigarette
Summary: Was he good? Bad? Dangerous? Well, a definite yes to the last one… but what and who was he anymore? He had grown from being a small French child coming to America and trying to figure out his English, to a middleschooler being sent to a Catholic school for a good two years, only to return to the small town in High School as an even more rebellious, bitter shithead. Now a mercenary.
1. Chapter 1

It was difficult to fathom how the odds could sometimes work in his own favour, especially with all the terrible things he had done over the span of eight years- assassination, murder, arson, robbery… fuck, there was more that could be added to the list, but they were so specific it didn't even seem to matter anymore. Two more jobs were left for him to do, and they were both in the same fucking city someone he happened to know resided in. Had Lady Fate finally pulled the lucky string for him? It seemed that way, but at the same time he could feel the anxiety unfurling in his chest as he weaved through the sea of people, sticking out like a sore thumb among many well-dressed people on the wide sidewalk of the city. Down the street was the apartment building where the person he knew lived, on the top floor in a rather nice apartment building (from what he had heard). Let's simply say he was… well known among many of the criminals in the city and across the state. He's a criminal defense attorney, someone who defends individuals who are charged with criminal activity. Honestly, it would have been useful if he had kept in contact with them after he left out of the blue two months before high school graduation, extremely useful in fact… but it was in the past. After he finished these last two jobs, hopefully with the others help, he could retire early and be set for life with the money he had saved up. Yes, he had quite the amount of money- but even despite that he refused to sleep in nice hotels or buy expensive foods to treat himself. He didn't deserve things such as those.

A breeze swept through the area and the Frenchman tilt his head down as he walked, mostly to avoid the looks people sent his way and to protect his face from the cold. The tip of his nose felt like it could fall off, along with his ears- if he looked at himself in a mirror, he wouldn't be surprised if they were a bright red. A gloved hand came to the lower half of his face and he rubbed it slightly in an attempt to warm himself, moving off to the side and away from the crowd of people and next to a building- the apartment he had been looking for. After a brief moment of arguing with himself over going in or not, he sucks in a breath and pushes past the double doors, sending a glance over to the lady behind the desk as he made a straight line towards the elevator. It took her a moment to realize someone had entered the lobby, looking up from her computer expecting to see a familiar face, such as someone who lived there or usually visited someone who did… but unexpectedly, it was someone she didn't recognize. With a small tilt of the head, she opened her mouth to speak or to welcome him, but when the brunette sent her a cold stare her mouth fell shut once again and she slowly returned to look at her screen. He didn't need any questions about who he was at the moment, because if he had to be honest? He wasn't quite sure.

Was he good? Bad? Dangerous? Well, a definite yes to the last one… but what and who was he anymore? He had grown from being a small French child coming to America and trying to figure out his English, to a kid in the fourth grade helping with a rebellion against adults, to a middle schooler being sent to a Catholic school for a good two years, only to return to the small town in High School as an even more rebellious, bitter shithead. Now he was a mercenary. Was he liked by people? Really, there had only been two or three people who were fond of him in a… special way, for special reasons.

About a few seconds after pressing his dirty thumb to the elevator's button, the doors slide open and he steps inside, coughing into his elbow as his thumb traces along the buttons on the inside. Emergency button? Skipping that, obviously… with a small grunt of sorts, he squints to get a better look down to them, head tilt slightly as he looks them over. His eyesight wasn't the best when he wasn't digging or in dark areas, and was stubborn about the idea of having to see some eye doctor to maybe get prescription glasses. Glasses were for fucking pansies! Finally, he finds the button after a shameful and embarrassing long while, pressing down on it so the outline turned a light green. Then, the elevator made its way up, the male stumbling a little to the point he had to hold onto the railing along the wall. When it came to a slow stop, he sighed in relief and watched as the doors slid open, being greeted to the sight of a hallway- the wallpaper was a maroon colour with a yellow-gold trim running along the bottom, and the low carpet on the floor was a dark black, most likely to hide specks of dirt shoes would track into the building. When he steps out, he looks to the left and then to the right, raising a brow as he tries to figure out where he has to go. On the doors were small gold painted plaques with numbers carved in so it caused a little dip. He moved to the nearest door and stared at the number- 504. The person he knew lived in 511, which must've been quite a few doors down. With a small nod and with that in mind, he slowly makes his way down the hallway, counting the numbers down as he passes each door. 507… 509.. And then, of course, the fateful he clears his throat, he steps forward and stares at the plaque, taking a deep breath and shutting his eyes. His hands were shaking, and he swore his eye was slightly twitching. Fuck, he really should've taken a hit from a cigarette quickly before heading inside… but really, it was too late to turn back, just like how it was too late to make up everything and the potential emotional pain he had caused this person to suffer. It really, really wasn't common at all for him to care about how others felt, but when it came to this man... This man he had known for nearly all of his life? It really just snipped one of his heartstrings. Again, he has to take another deep breath before raising his hand up, bringing it down onto the door with three knocks. Brief and loud. Behind the door he could hear the shuffling of feet and the sound of someone muttering under their breath. If there was at least one thing other than complaining about where he had been, he'd certainly complain about the time. Six in the evening wasn't too late to have visitors, was it? It really wasn't like he'd know. Now he could hear the sound of a lock sliding, the small dingling of the chain attached to it… then, the door opened.

There in the doorway stood a man in his mid-twenties, standing at about 5'7". He had slicked back blonde locks that could easily be compared to golden wheat from out in the farmer country, and the gorgeous blue eyes he sported was as blue as the sky on a nice summers day. The Frenchman's own dark olive greens locked with the blues and there was an extended moment of silence between the two, the one thing being heard were the light breaths the both of them gave off. They stared each other down similarly to boxers eyeing each other from opposite corners of a boxing ring, waiting for the bell to be rung, signaling the start of a round. Though tense, there was a sense of an awkward tone settling in the air. The male in the hallway gives up with the stare and averts his eyes from the other, clearing his throat as he looks down to his boots,

"I reckon you're going to let me in, Gregory?"

The blonde in the doorway opened his mouth to speak, though it shut before a word could slip. He must have been about to say something that'd cross the line, something possibly so insulting that he had to bite down on his own tongue. It took a short moment for him to gather his thoughts and seize them from jumping around in his brain, once having that done he was able to reply. "I don't know, Christophe. Are you going to explain yourself and make up for the eight years you've been missing?"

"Well, if you let me inside of your apartment to 'ave a sit-down and a chat over a drink, then we'll both get what we want in the end. Won't we?"

There was a small tsk that came from Gregory as he looked the other over, his lips pierced as he slowly shook his head. "Oh, but I _really _don't want your filthiness to get all over the furniture and floors… the cleaner just stopped by this afternoon, and it'd be a shame if I had to call them in again twice in the same day. So, instead of us have a 'sit-down', as you yourself put it, as soon as you set a boot in my apartment I require you to make a beeline straight for the shower and get the hell in. You look as if you've been living in the gutters. Hell, with how I remember you being when we were younger, you probably did and took _comfort_ in doing so." His arms cross and he steps aside so that Christophe can move inside, eyes following the dirt-caked Frenchie as he made his way in. Christophe in return gives him his own glare before slipping his arms out from the straps of his backpack, letting it fall to the floor against the wall before making quick work untying his boots. They were military boots- expensive ones he had gotten from his mother on Christmas, back in his Sophomore year of high school. Despite the many years of being worn and from what he had been up to, they were surprisingly in decent shape. There was wear on the heels and by the toes, but that was to be expected with nearly every pair of shoe one were to own. Once stripped of his boots and his coats, he stands back up straight and looks to Gregory.

"It's extremely funny 'ow you think I'm really going to get in the shower. No way in 'ell am I getting in."

"And it's certainly a wonderful joke for you to think I'm going to stop being persistent. Really, I thought we were friends since elementary- do you not remember how I was back then? I've hardly changed, rat. Come on, hurry along." Gregory gestures for Christophe to follow him, wasting no time to walk through the living room and past the small kitchen to his bedroom door. He stops in the doorway and turns his head to see if Christophe was following as told, and surely enough he was trudging over. Surely enough he was, though the expression plastered upon his face was far from falling under any pleasant categories. "Come on, hurry it up, I wish to waste no time getting all that muck and grime off your skin and out of your hair. God knows what colour the water will run when we first get you in. Brown for sure, but I think red may be a possibility."

Christophe snorts and stops before him, nodding slowly. "The latter is a possibility, as much as I 'ate to admit it."

Gregory had merely said it in some sort of way of joking, though now that Christophe had confirmed in was a possibility, a sense of worry overcame him. Though, as he always does he pushed to the side and out of the way before turning back around. He doesn't need to worry about Christophe, not after he left him. Not at all! Besides, Christophe was tall, and had a bit of muscle to him. He could easily win a fight against anyone he damn well pleased. He was the rowdy type of guy, and it was possible he most likely got into fights on a regular basis. Or not, depending on what he had ended up doing over the years, Well… actually, what kind of things could he have done? What kind of things would leave him with dried specks of blood throughout his hair, and what would leave him coming to his apartment looking as if he was with the pigs in the pen for a day? It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. For now. That's what he reassured himself of as he lead him through the bedroom, making sure Christophe steered clear of the bed as he stepped into the master bathroom. Even if it was labeled as a 'master bathroom', it was rather… small. Big enough to fit a shower-bath, a sink and a toilet, along with a rack for necessities such as toilet paper and his products. There wasn't a closet to store things, which was something Gregory had been hoping for when seeking out an apartment in the city, so he had to make do with what he could fit.

"Let's get this over with… I'm assuming you're going to bathe me because you think I'm incapable of doing it myself?" Christophe pulled his dirty grey t-shirt off from over his head, throwing it to the side before catching sight of himself in the mirror. He hadn't seen himself in a reflection in a while, and now he realized why Gregory was so disgusted over his appearance, the reason why people had been giving him looks in the streets- he really, really looked like a disgusting homeless bum. A whine or a whimper got stuck in his throat and he quickly looked away, running his hands through his hair so that small dirt flakes fell to the tiled floor. He really let himself go, didn't he? Sure, he had always had low standards when it came to his appearance and grooming, but… now he really even didn't meet them. Christophe wasn't one to typically feel terrible about himself, but here he was, feeling absolutely _low_.

"Caught sight of yourself?" Gregory asked Christophe, a hint of a smirk coming across his features.

Christophe looked to him with an annoyed look, rolling his eyes and undoing his belt. "Just start the shower, for fuck's sake. Start the damn shower."

Gregory had acknowledged the fact the other was being quite hostile, as he was himself as much as he hated to admit it, but this was worse than how Christophe had been acting before. His nose wrinkles and he draws the shower curtain back, turning the water to lukewarm so it didn't burn the Frenchman. Or did he want to? He debated over it for a few seconds before deciding against it, not wanting to worsen Christophe's mood more than it already was. There was already a clean washcloth and some products in the shower rack, so he didn't need to worry about replacing anything. Good. That meant he could get this over sooner. Gregory turns back to face Christophe, keeping his eyes above the waist to avoid any other emotions being aroused. "Step in and get under the water, I'll be in in a moment."

Christophe hadn't thought much about what Gregory had said as he stepped into the shower, until it dawned on him. No. No way was he going to be letting Gregory in the shower with him, not _this _fucking soon. He remembered an identical scenario to this happening in Junior year, and he certainly wasn't going to let it happen again. "Wait a fucking second, Gregory." His head pokes out and he catches the other already getting to work to get his shirt off. "I am not letting you in the same shower as me. That's where I draw the line for this, you can draw the curtain back and stand there, _clothed_, but I am not letting you come within a foot or two of me _naked_. I remember what 'appened in Junior year clearly."

"Oh, Christophe…" Gregory simply smiles and shakes his head, setting a towel on the floor by the shower. "It wasn't that bad if you remember it, aren't I correct? You're the type of person to drown out memories if they don't suit your tastes. I know you like the back of my hand, Christophe, even if you think I've forgotten after all these years. Besides, it isn't my intention to do anything like _that_ with you, unless you just so happen to initiate something. I imagine you haven't been laid in a while."

"Shut it." The brunette snaps, drawing the curtain shut with a harsh tug. "I'd rather be forced into something like that than do it with you."

"If you say so."

Christophe scoffs and moves to stand underneath the stream of water coming from the showerhead, head tilting back and his eyes falling shut. The slight roar of the water around his head prevented him from hearing the shower curtain open once again, with Gregory now stepping in. Well, what had alerted him about the others closer than wanted presence? The small gust of cold air that came from the curtain being opened, his eyes quickly opening to see the blonde standing there with a lazy grin plastered on his face. Christophe quickly backs up, wincing and hissing as his back roughly hits the knobs for adjusting the water's temperature. "_What did I say?"_

"I know exactly what you had said, Christophe, I simply chose to look past it." As a child would, Gregory sticks his tongue out, taking a few small steps towards Christophe. "Anyways, I'm making sure I get every single speck of dirt out of your hair, every single spot of filth on your skin. Christ, it feels like I'm bathing a dog. Are you a puppy, Chrissy?"

That struck a nerve. Being compared to a dog? Wasn't original in the slightest on Gregory's part, but every single time it would happen, a sense of anger would flood over Christophe. He knows he shouldn't freak out and curse the other out for doing such a thing- he _did_ let him come into his apartment, and if he's even lucky enough he'll be able to stay the night… or a few. With his hands balled into fists, he takes a deep breath, and releases it with a small hiss through clenched teeth. "Just get this over with, will you?"

"Yes, yes, dear," Gregory gets his hands on a bottle of shampoo, flicking open the cap and squeezing some of the lavender coloured liquid into his hand. "I have a feeling we'll use up this whole bottle just by using it on you… doesn't matter, though. I have the money to buy hundreds of this brand."

"Mhm, I suppose you do, being a criminal defense attorney and all."

There was silence as Gregory stared at the other, a look of surprise spreading over his face. In an attempt to recompose himself, he clears his throat and slowly nods, stepping forward and bringing his hands up to Christophe's hair. "Er… you'd be right, Christophe, I am indeed a defense attorney for criminals across the state… my question for you is, how do you know that information?"

"We came to an agreement we'd talk _after_ I bathe, didn't we?" To protect his eyes from the shampoo, he shuts his eyes tightly and tilts his head back into Gregory's hands.

"I- yes, I suppose we did come to an agreement previously about that, didn't we? Foolish of me to forget." A sigh slips from Gregory and he almost roughly massages the shampoo into Christophe's scalp, doing his best to get up any dirt that may have dried there. Dried blood was also a possibility of course, but it was likely the steady stream of brown heading towards the drain covered up any bits of crimson there could have been. Now that Gregory thinks about it, it's been a while since he's been this close to someone he actually likes. Well, likes is a rocky term to use at the moment, because Gregory is teetering between tightly wrapping his hands around Christophe's throat and squeezing until the other turns an unnatural shade of another color, or to wrap his arms around his torso and guide his back up against the wall and hold him there. Maybe if he does do the first he can defend himself in court? Would that be possible for criminal trial? It's faint, but Gregory chuckles at the thought, slowly withdrawing his hands from Christophe's hair and rinsing them under the water. "Rinse the suds from your hair and I'll prepare a washcloth. After I scrub down your body, I'll get another dollop of shampoo and do your hair again. Got it?"

"Mhm. Sure."

From the shower rack, Gregory grabs the washcloth and a bar of soap, scrubbing the bar against the washcloth before setting the soap back down onto its tray. While Christophe's rinsing, should he look him over? So he knows what he's dealing with before touching him, of course. Absolutely no other reason. His gaze slowly drifts from above Christophe's neck down to his chest, a small smirk coming over him as he does so. Sure, Christophe wasn't exactly a big muscular guy, but he certainly _did_ have some muscle to him. A few faint lines of scars were littered across his collarbone and arms, a long one stretching the length of his hip as well. "Christophe, are those scars from uh… the incident?"  
Christophe doesn't even hesitate to answer, nodding and opening his eyes once he was free of the risk of getting soap in his eyes. "Yes. They are. Some of them aren't from that, like the ones on my 'ands."

"The ones on your hands?" Gregory raised a brow and took a hold of one of the other's hands, raising it up to try and get a better look. Surely enough, there was one that stretched from the knuckle of his index to his wrist. The other markings were just knicks, Gregory guessing it was from him playing with a knife in his spare time. "Oh. Terrible."

"I suppose," Christophe cracks a grin and glances to the side, "but they're all old. I meant recent as in the past few years."

"Oh, yes, sure, I see. Despite the marks, you have nice hands… not that I mean that in a weird way. Some hands are just nicer than others. Yours are… big, bigger than mine obviously. See?" Gregory moves Christophe's hand so the palm shows, pressing his own palm to it to show Christophe. "My fingers are slimer, but my hands are still smaller than yours."

"Does it matter whose 'ands are bigger? It's like we're 'igh schoolers comparing dick sizes."

Gregory rolls his eyes and pulls his hand away, before making work with the washcloth around Christophe's face, starting with his cheeks. "Oh, I'm sure that's bigger than mine as well."

"I wouldn't be that surprised, you know. You're a twink, after all."

"Wait- _excuse me?_" Gregory's mouth falls agape and his brow furrows, head slightly tilting to the side in question. What does he decide to do? He moves the washcloth over Christophe's mouth and presses down, huffing and moving closer for their faces to be a few inches apart. "I'll have you know, Christophe, I'm far from being a twink. I am smarter than you in many ways, and faster on my feet. If anything, you'd be the one taking me if anything of the sort happened between us!"

Christophe raises a hand to pull the washcloth away, coughing and spitting to get the taste of soap out of his mouth. "Get me drunk first before I even bother consider letting you dick me. So, what I'm saying is, _in your dreams_."

"I've certainly made my dreams a reality this far, I can do it again!"  
"Sure you can. Get the fuck out of 'ere, Gregory, I'm more than capable of finishing this shower without the 'elp of some scrawny British twink."

"_No._" Gregory grunts and sets the washcloth down before grabbing a hold of Christophe's wrists. "I will not, you filthy fucking mutt. Would you like to return to living out on the streets rather than stay in my expensive apartment?"

"_I think I'd be much better off._"

"Don't you even fucking dare say such a thing, DeLorne! If you didn't need me, you wouldn't have shown up on my doorstep this late in the evening! Do not lie to me!" Gregory forces the Frenchman's arms to his sides and lets out a small growl, moving close to the point their chests were touching. "You _need_ me now. I bet you were just a homeless bum living your days on the streets with nothing but a backpack and the clothes on your back, using the money you got from strangers to fuel your cigarette addiction rather than buying yourself something to eat! You're scrawnier than I am! I can see your fucking ribs!"

"Get your 'ands off of me!-"

"You listen closely, DeLorne. You listen _very_ fucking closely, got that? I will not repeat myself at all. I have been waiting for you to come back to me for years. I fell into a deep state of depression when you left me, and I felt like I could do absolutely nothing at all. I need you as much as you need me. You are _mine_, and I _love you_. You're too blind to see that! We were always supposed to be together and have our happily ever after, but you were so stubborn you kept turning down my advances! You rejected me time after time, and finally went ahead and left me! I'm the reason you left, I bet. Am I that terrible? Am I that fucking terrible, Chris?" His hands move from Christophe's wrists up to the other's cheeks, making sure their eyes lock together. "I _need_ you. We need _each other_."

Christophe sucked in a breath, not even bothering to take the chance to grab Gregory's arms and pull them away. There was no point- this outburst was bound to happen. "I'm sorry. Just let me bathe. I'll talk to you after. Go."

Slowly, Gregory's hands move away and he steps back, drawing open the shower curtain and stepping out. "You always push me away, Christophe. You always push me away."


	2. Chapter 2

"_Always push 'im away_. Fucking ridiculous." Christophe grumbles under his breath, now having turned off the water and was now making his way out of the shower. He stepped onto the mat, wincing slightly at the strange feeling. The mat's surface was… fluffy? Fuzzy? He wasn't sure how to describe it, but it was for certain that being wet and stepping onto it was different than what he had been used to. Usually there were no mats at all, or there were regular towels laid out! Just another thing he'll have to get used to if Gregory's going to be letting him stay here.

Though at this rate, it seemed awfully unlikely, but there was a small chance that Gregory would get over it. Hopefully there would be calm after the storm that had just occurred.

Gregory had put a towel somewhere, hadn't he? Oh, yes, there it is. On the floor. Christophe leans down and picks up the baby blue towel, bringing it up to wipe his face clear of water droplets, which was done in vain as a few dripped down from his soaking wet hair.

What had Gregory called him before? A puppy? Mutt? Yes, the British male had compared him to a _dog_. In an attempt to spite the other and live up to the ridiculous name calling, Christophe lowered the towel and shook his head as fast as he could, as a dog would shaking its coat after getting soaked. Sure, it wouldn't do much, but Christophe had always lived to spite Gregory, no matter the situation or circumstances. It gave him satisfaction knowing he could easily get under the other's skin like some sort of parasite. A parasite. He had always been a parasite throughout their first few years of meeting Gregory, having to rely on him to translate the more complicated sentences people spoke in English to his native tongue. He was appreciative sometimes, sure, but now that he thinks about it, he really never did anything for Gregory. Except for that one time.

Stanley Marsh had said some things, spread a few petty rumours around the school in an attempt to annoy Gregory. Of course this lead to Gregory calling Christophe at around ten in the evening, complaining and cursing Marsh's name to no end. The call had ended with the two coming to an agreement, that Christophe would scare the ever-loving shit out of the raven haired male to get him to take everything he had said back, which seemed impossible at first, until Gregory had given him precise instructions.

Gregory had always been one to plan and think things ahead, and when things would spiral out of control or not go according to plan, he'd often throw a fit and complain until things were fixed for him. He had been so used to his looks and the charm he had helping him get through life, usually others that admired him would go to the end of the world just in an attempt to impress him or get some sort of praise to spill from the Englishman's mouth. Christophe, on the other end, didn't care about the attention from Gregory, whether it came out to be positive or negative. He'd only do things for him if he felt like he owed it to him. Now he was starting to think it was something more- possibly suppressed feelings?  
No, no, that's ridiculous. His nose wrinkled at the thought as he brought the towel to his hair, drying it the best to his ability. Why would he suppress any type of feelings for someone? Never before had he suppressed feelings of disgust for various peoples during his years of school, and never did he hide the fact he'd gladly punch them.

Is it an act of denial on his part though? Can he trust himself to think against the idea of having suppressed his thoughts before? With a tsk, he shook his head and stepped over to the sink. His eyes drifted to the reflection in the mirror, blurred by the fog set across the mirror. Nothing a wipe with the towel could fix- now he could clearly see his own reflection. Christophe had to admit, it was strange seeing himself as clean as he was at the moment. No dirt caked his skin, his hair no longer had little bits of dirt… he finally looked like a decent human. The Frenchman cracks a grin and moves a little closer to the mirror to get a better look at himself, his body now pressing up against the sink, and his elbows hold himself up on the counter. After a minute of staring at himself, Christophe realizes something he isn't too pleased with.

The smudges of dirt from before had done a good job of hiding his faded scars, which prominently stood out against his skin since they were a lighter shade. Christophe knew he shouldn't be bothered, other people looked far worse than him… but this just _irked_ him internally. The scars littering his body brought back terrible memories, ones he had done his best to forget about all together. The idea of getting slashed with a weapon made him have an overwhelming feeling of panic, and he'd often resort to surrounding himself in the large coat he had showed up in. Anything to return to the feeling of safety and warmth, something he never quite had when he was a younger child.

A knock on the door rips Christophe from his thoughts and he quickly turns, wrapping the towel around his waist and opening the door. There stood Gregory, a clean pair of clothes folded in his arms.

"I assumed you didn't have any clean clothes… and I had kept some in case you ever showed up again. Here. Get changed into these and come out to the kitchen, and have a seat at the counter. I'm brewing tea in the kettle, so don't be alarmed when you hear it whistle." Gregory is wearing a smile as he holds them out, head tilt to the side slightly. "Blueberry tea. Your favorite."

Christophe reaches out and takes the pair of clothes, setting them down on the sink and slowly nodding. His smile from before was now gone, replaced with a neutral expression. He didn't want to give Gregory any sort of satisfaction from receiving a smile- not after the small outburst in the shower. Foolish of him to get mad over something so small, and something he could easily prevent if it potentially happened, he knows. "Thanks… it's funny you still remember that."

"I remember many things about you, Christophe. How could I forget them? You were born in Mayenne, your PTSD from various events that have happened, the tattoo under your wrist." Gregory slowly steps in and takes a gentle hold of Christophe's left hand, turning it over and tapping his wrist underside. His index gently taps the tattoo- a pair of scissors seeming to be cutting along a dotted line. "I could never forget when you first showed me this. I was so mad with you, fuming, I just couldn't believe you'd get tattoos at the age of fourteen… then two years later you had went ahead and got a small tattoo of a spade on your ankle. Speaking of tattoos, I actually got one… two… doubt you saw them. Same spot where you got your scissor one, under the wrist," Gregory flips his hand over and smiles to Christophe, "the other is on my thigh- but guess what that date means?"

In no time at all, Christophe finally breaks and smiles, nodding slowly as he chuckles. "Yeah, I remember that date clearly. September second, 1999. Day I met you. I was seven, you were six almost going on seven as well… You were speaking complicated sentences in a quick way, and all I knew in English was 'yes'. Fuck, time flies… I miss when the days were easier."

"Make that two of us, I suppose." Gregory nods and takes a step back. "I'll be in the kitchen as I said. I'll see you in there- get dressed, okay? I'm sorry for what happened a little bit ago."

"It's whatever."

It really wasn't whatever. Christophe knew he should shun the behavior, like a cat knocking over plants off of a side table, but he couldn't bring himself do to it. He didn't want to cause any more arguments, or tension between them. In fact, it was the _last_ thing he wanted to happen. If anything, he wanted to at least make an attempt to patch up their relationship.

"I'll 'urry and get dressed then. I'll see you out there."

Gregory gives a small nod and turns on his heel, quickly taking leave to return back to the kitchen.

What had Gregory kept for him for clothes? Christophe turns and picks up the shirt, unfolding it and holding it up. It was just a solid colour, a navy blue. Could he be one complain? At least it wasn't some ridiculous graphic t-shirt, right? Slipping it over his head, he slides his arms through the holes and then pulled the bottom of the shirt down, fixing it to stay comfortably around his waist. Next was a pair of boxers, and then cargo shorts. Yeah, Gregory knew him a little _too_ well, especially after eight years. He zips the zipper and slides the button through the hole, turning to look at himself in the mirror. The outfit was all right- when it came to clothes, he wasn't too picky on what he wore, as long as it was comfortable and it worked. Hell, he was thankful that Gregory bothered to keep any in case he came back.

But what hurt him was 'in case'. Wasn't it obvious he'd come back to him? Even after big arguments as kids, where Christophe would claim he was never going to talk to him again, he showed up a day or two later, saying nothing as he tried to get attention out of the Brit. Tugging on his sleeve and whining phrases in his mother tongue, his head cocking to the side as he whined and whined and whined... I mean, sure, this time days had turned into years, but at least he came back, as he always did. A sigh slips from Christophe and he opens the door, walking through the bedroom out into the living room-kitchen area.

He saw Gregory leaning on the counter by the stove, holding himself up with his elbows as he eyed the kettle like a hawk watching a rodent. He hadn't seemed to hear Christophe enter or walk closer, until he turned his head to see the Frenchman.

"Oh," he cleared his throat and stood up straight, arms tucking behind his back, "that was awfully quick of you, wasn't it?"

"It doesn't take long for me to dr-"

"I'm glad those clothes still fit you," Gregory cut him off with a small smile, head tilt to the side, "now why don't you have a seat? The kettle is about to whistle."

"... yeah." Christophe slowly nods, turning and making his way to sit at one of the stools. He wasn't used to being cut off by others- he was used to being the one interrupting and getting attention. It felt… bad? No, no, Gregory probably didn't mean it. "So you really, _really_ want to know everything?"

"Why wouldn't I? I want answers, Christophe." Gregory was reaching up into the top cabinets, gently taking out and setting down tea cups. "I've been starving for them."

"I can't tell you absolutely everything under the sun behind why I was gone, though."

Gregory pauses, his breath hitching as he slowly turns his head to look over to him. "And why is that? Do you not trust me?"

"I do trust you. I've trusted you all my life with stupid shit, stupid secrets and fuck knows what else, but I'm serious. I can't tell you everything, because it's not stupid like the

other things I'd used to tell you. It's serious. Very, _very_ serious." Christophe's arms rest on the counter and he leans forward, a sigh leaving him as he hung his head. "You know everything under the sun about me, and you're going to know more once we 'ave tea in front of us… but for reasons I'm not going to say or hint at, I can not tell you all of it. I'm sorry, but it's terrible shit."

"I'm sure you know what my profession is, don't you, Christophe?"  
"Lawyer, more specifically criminal defense."

"Exactly. I'm sure you can imagine the types of things I've had to deal with and see while defending those types of people?"

"Many terrible things."

"Exactly, Christophe! So why can't you tell me _everything_, even if they're as terrible as you claim?"

With his brow furrowing, he slowly shook and raised his head to give Gregory a look, a warning. "I'm serious, Gregory… it's beyond terrible. You aren't going to weasel anything out of me like you tend to do."

The blonde sports a pout and crosses his arms. "Are you really being serious right now?"

"Yes, Gregory. I am so very serious about this. Stop being such a bitch over me not being able to tell you something, please."

He chokes on his words for a moment, before turning at the sound of the loud hissing of the kettle. He moves to turn the heat off, removes the kettle from the elements, and pours water into the cups with tea bags. "Twat…"

"Con."

The blonde turns his head to Christophe, nose wrinkling in disgust of what he just heard. "What the hell did you just call me, Christophe?"

"Must I repeat myself?" Christophe sports a smirk, rolling his eyes. "_Con_."

"Very, _very_ mature of you."  
"Speak for yourself, black sheep."

"Funny, I suppose we're one in the same?"

"Bite me."  
"Would if I could, love. _Would _if I _could_." Gregory carefully picks up the cups of tea, having set them on two small plates that had similar designs to the cups. Golden grape vines with brilliantly coloured green leaves on the brims of the cups were matched with vines on the edges of the plates. Expensive, Christophe guessed, as had been Gregory's lifestyle for years. He gently sets one down before Christophe and walks around to the other side of the counter, setting his own down so he can pull out a stool. "Now… Tea is out, get to talking."

Christophe carefully picks up his cup with both hands, bringing it to his lips and taking a sip. If he had to be honest, he wasn't sure how long it had been since he had had a hot beverage. Coffee wasn't something he was a fan of, and with how busy he was and how dangerous his work had been, he never was able to go out and order a hot chocolate because of the risks. The liquid soothed his throat, and the taste was absolutely unbelievable. Just like when they were children. Memories flooded his mind and he found his chest flooded with a sense of warmth, causing a small smile to tug his lips upwards. Childhood arguments, playful fighting as they tackle each other in the mud… the good and simple times before he was dragged away by the coming adult world. A strange and mysterious place that was dar and unknown.

"Get to talking, Christophe."  
"Right, right." The Frenchman slowly and carefully sets his cup back down onto the little saucer, turning his head to look at Gregory. "I left 'igh School a few months before graduation. As usual, I wasn't really thinking straight… I was being a complete dumbass. I packed my things and ran away, not even bothering to let anyone know where I went. I wanted to pursue a dangerous career and make myself happy. I wanted to find 'appiness that I thought I didn't have before. But you know what? I fell into some sort of depression and felt like utter shit. The only thing that ever gave me a feeling similar to 'appiness was… being a mercenary and doing…. _things_. When I realized I left behind all that made me happy, it was too late to go back. I got into a dangerous profession as a mercenary." Again, Christophe picks up the tea cup and sips some, sighing softly once he swallows.

"Continue."  
"A year later, I ran into a boy you most likely remember from 'igh School. The weed dealer kid who was found to have plans to shoot up the school- the one they sent away for a while? Vincent… Rudge. Yeah. Came across 'im and 'e asked me what I was doing, didn't reply, and then I 'eard 'e was doing the same kind of shit I was doing Then we decided to partner up. A year or two later we 'ave some falling out, and then I get into contact with someone from China. She's some big boss of a gang-type thing up there. Worked with them for a while and some guy name Valentino, and then another falling out 'appened. Skip a few more years and 'ere I am with someone I missed far too much."

Gregory is silent, obviously trying his best to process this as easily as he could. Left. Depression. Happiness. Mercenary. Vincent. China. Valentino. So much to process at once. Sucking in a breath, he shifts in his seat and slowly nods, leaning forward onto the counter, his elbows holding him up. "Christophe… _did you kill people?_"

"That and other things."

"Why?..."

"Thought I needed to. There's…. Something else though, Gregory. Er- I 'ave two jobs left. In this city."

"... two jobs left? And you thought it would be nice to potentially drag me into this mess-up?"

Christophe snorts. "No, no, no- I mean, unless you'd like to do me a favour and 'elp out. There's a charity dance in two days downtown. Richest of the rich will be there. I've been 'ired for a job… to take out a certain someone going there. No details as to why they want 'im dead, but 'ere's what I do know- a Russian drug lord of sorts who runs an underground human trafficking ring or whatever. Demyan Ivanov. I also need to take out 'is younger sister who will also be in attendance."

"... The Ivanov family? Christophe, I've worked on cases involving those people for sure… can you really be sure you'll be able to deal with th-"

"Gregory. I've been doing this shit for eight years. Those eight years are coming to an end after the job after this one. Then I can… 'retire'. Be 'appy. Maybe…

settle down with you, you know?"

Gregory raises a brow and takes his cup into his hands. "Settle down with _me_? What do you exactly mean when you say that, Christophe?"

"Are you that dumb?"  
"Christophe, I'm just- you've always said you've hated me. You've always said that you'd never want to be… like that… with _me_. Why have you just changed your mind all of a sudden?"  
"You're the one person who puts up with my shit and tolerates my sour behaviour. You were the thing I left behind, you know- the one thing that 'ad made me 'appy."

"I made _you_, Christophe Maxence DeLorne, _happy? _I feel like this is a lie. You always cursed me out and called me names. Sometimes you even got under my skin and managed to lower my self-esteem. And God _knows_ it's difficult for someone who isn't you to do that."

"Difficult to believe, I know… but I guess I am just attracted to you, Canary."

"Canary?"

"What can I say? I love canaries. Your 'air is the same colour as one. Your singing 'as always been as good as one… but you did tend to rat me out many times in elementary over stupid things I said. Anyways, unfortunately I don't think _you_ 'ave a thing for Moles." Slowly, Christophe slides off the stool and walks over to the balcony doors. "I need a cigarette."

"No, hold on just a damn minute, Christophe-"

"We can talk after I 'ave a cigarette."

"You're not coming in smelling like a damn cigarette and ruining how my apartment smells. Come sit down right this very fucking instant."

A sigh slips from his lips and Christophe slowly turns to look over to Gregory, rolling his eyes with a playful grin. "Yes, mother."

"Don't 'mother' me either. If anything, out of the two of us, you'd end up being the motherly fig-"

"You sound an awful lot like your mother,"

"_Step-_Mother is what I'm going to assume you meant. You know how much I hate that dense woman. She's simply unbearable. You know how many times I came up with ridiculous over-the-top plots to end her."

"Just shut up about the witch, all right? Your _Step_-mother and your father both 'ated me, and I don't 'ave the fondest memories involving them." Christophe makes his way back over to Gregory, leaning on the counter. He didn't seem to plan to sit back down. Just… stand there. He took a hold of his tea cup and brought it close. "They wanted to call the cops on me and 'ave me sent to juvenile detention center."

"I… suppose they got that wish one way or another when you were sent off to the private school." Gregory quietly watched as Christophe brought the cup to his lips, taking another sip of the blueberry tea. "Anyways… back to the whole… canary nickname and the statement you said- you _like_ me in that way, Christophe?"

The brunette holds up his index as he downs the tea, signaling for the Brit to hold on just a moment. A few seconds pass and Christophe sets down the cup, now empty since he had downed the rest. "I mean, maybe I do, maybe I don't, but it's not like you care. Surely you've gotten a 'old of some beautiful but dumb broad who only loves you for your looks and money. Probably looks past your manipulative behaviour because she just knows as soon as you get married, she can divorce you with claims you were abusive- say she was too scared at the time to turn down your proposal. Ruin your life, even, and take 'alf of everything you own and 'old dear." Christophe sets the cup back down on the saucer. "We both know I'm one of few people who acknowledge your manipulative behaviour, the other few being Thorn, Pocket, and Pirrup. We know your games too well. 'owever, Pirrup is the one out of us four who is a damn people pleaser. What 'appened to that lot, anyways? 'opefully Thorn hasn't gone down a spiral of some sorts… I worry about 'im."

"Of course you worry about Damien and not me," Gregory mutters under his breath, shaking his head just slightly. "Keep on trying to avoid my question of whether or not you fancy me, why don't you, Christophe?"

"I believe knowing the wellbeing of people I somewhat care about is more important than who I want to fuck and marry, asswipe."

"Fine. Damien owns a club with McCormick- Kenneth, you know him obviously. Herb and Philip got together a little while after Herb came out to people, and they're now engaged. Even adopted a lovely little girl and an older boy. An angel, she is, but the older brother is a teenager, about fourteen, and he's… different. Truly. While I was talking about the wedding with them, she made it awfully clear she wanted to bear the rings- not be some flower girl. The boy was against that idea and whined that he wanted to be the ring bearer. We should visit them sometime soon… they only live a few hours drive away- wait a minute, now you've got me rambling!" Gregory's face goes a light shade of pink and he huffs, shaking his head. "Christophe, please, I _beg_ of you to answer my question- do you love me or not?"

"I told you I'm not sure. Do you 'ave a girlfriend or something?"  
"I haven't seen anyone since I hooked up with Bebe Stevens… before I left for college… no, Christophe. I'm not seeing any man or woman. I've been waiting for you to get your ass back here."

"Alright. So we 'ave mutual feelings when it comes to each other."

"... so that means you are attracted to me?"  
"Are you attracted to me?"

"I… believe so? I've never sat down and thought about it. You might have to give me a while to think of the pros and cons. Pros… a frenchie, nice looks and somewhat tolerable personality, likes me for who I am, doesn't smoke cannabis… cons… has killed people who were most likely innocent for money paid by anonymous folks, smokes cigarettes. Well, I suppose the pros outweigh the cons a good bit…"Gregory slowly nods and sends a small smile up to Christophe. "I guess I could have a thing for you, huh?"

"Are you sure you don't want to re-think that."

"I mean, I've always had a funny warm feeling when I hung around you sometimes before you left… give me a chance, Christophe."

"I don't know… you called me a rat and other awful names earlier."

"It was in the moment, I was angry. You know that. I truly, _truly_ did not mean anything I said, and I am deeply sorry. I love you. You know that, right? Come here…" Gregory slowly stands up from the stool and steps in front of Christophe, reaching up and cupping his cheeks. "I need you, Christophe, and you need me… I know you do… you need me to be there to make you happy as you said, and I need _you_ to make me happy. Hold on, lean down just a little so our faces are parallel…"

Christophe does as asked of him, leaning down just slightly. He listened to the slight shuffle of feet as Gregory moved a little closer, pressing his forehead to the Frenchman's with a small grin.

"I know I can be toxic. I know I can be manipulative to get what I want, just as much as I hate admitting it… but we all have our flaws, don't we? We all make mistakes… you make mistakes, too, Christophe, and I can be the one to forgive each and every one of them if you just love me _back_. Please?"

There's many mixed feelings running through Christophe right now. Guilt, regret, a feeling of anxiousness, and even happiness had managed its way into the mix. What did he have to lose if he admitted he liked him back in that way? In had been eight years. Gregory might be hiding some things from him. Surely, he must be… but he had the right to if he wanted to. Christophe was hiding things as well, things he probably wouldn't even tell him about while on his deathbed. With a wavering sigh, he presses a light peck to the freckled bridge of Gregory's nose, moving his arms up to wrap them around the other's neck. "Oui. D'accord. Je suppose que je t'aime…"

"Merveilleux~..." A purr rumbles in Gregory's throat and he moves a hand from one of Christophe's cheeks to his shoulder, rubbing small circles against the fabric of the shirt. "Perhaps we should settle down… it's almost going on sev- oh, baby girl!" Gregory quickly pulls away from Christophe with a grin, turning and moving down towards the ground to sit on his knees. "C'mere, Raffles!"  
Slowly Christophe's gaze moves to the floor to see a rather long rodent making its quick way along towards Gregory, stopping before him and flopping onto its side. "What… _is_ that? A ferret?"

"Only the best ferret baby ever! My little Raffles…~ my sweet little prince!" He carefully lifts up the long furry noodle and holds it to his chest, slowly standing back up. "I suppose he's just woken up… poor baby, daddy can't play tonight… I'll be right back, Christophe, just head off to the bedroom. I need to put him back in his cage for the night…"

"... Right." That was all he said as Christophe watched the blonde hurry off to another room, letting a long and drawn out sigh leave him.

A ferret.

A ferret had seemed to take his place while he was gone.


End file.
